Don't Cut Your Throat, Count,
by louare
Summary: He examined himself in the mirror, running a hand over the rough stubble that had formed on his cheeks and chin. Keeping himself clean-shaven was one of the hardest obstacles Blumiere had to face in the morning.


_...remember your beloved._

He examined himself in the mirror, running a hand over the rough stubble that had formed on his cheeks and chin. Keeping himself clean-shaven was one of the hardest obstacles Blumiere had to face in the morning. He knew it was a necessity, as it was a part of his mein, his appearance to the minions and Nastasia. With a sigh, he gathered his tools from the bathroom cabinet; his razor, the hone and strop, the shaving cream and brush. He laid them out in their usual places on the sink, and without ceremony, began the ritual that had begun his mornings for the past thousand years.

His father had sneered at the idea of teaching his son to shave, regarding it as a silly human tradition. He himself had kept a beard, but when his son began to grow scraggy hairs, Blumiere had been handed a razor and been told to start looking like 'a man of his station.'

With that advice, he had spent nearly an hour in the bathroom every morning for months, shaving peach fuzz and casting so many healing spells, he was afraid the numerous nicks and cuts would leave scars despite them.

His right side finished, the count turned his head and began on the left. His red eyes bore into the ones in the mirror for just a moment, as he forced himself to focus on the task.

Blumiere had almost mastered the art, despite no instruction by the time he had come of age, and shaving had become an everyday ritual to avoid a unkempt look his father would have commented on.

The day he reached his majority was one that Blumiere would not forget for two reasons. It was the day Father had laid a hand on his shoulder, and spoken to him as an equal, saying how proud he was.

And it was the day he met Timpani.

A hissed escaped his mouth as his hand jerked and sent a red line of pain down his cheek. Automatically clutching it, Count Bleck murmured a healing spell under his breath and sighed as the pain faded. After a moment, he pulled away his hand and ran it under the tap to wash away the blood.

Red. Red like the setting sun, because that day he had been celebrated as a man, able to protect himself, and wander as far as he liked from the castle- but not too far, or Father would be scared. Of that, he didn't have to be told. After the celebrations, he had retired to his bedroom, only to warp miles away to the cliff his brothers had told him stories about since he could walk, to stand above the human town, and observe the cretins scurry around like bugs-

He turned off the water, and took a deep breath to calm himself. Count Bleck picked up his straight razor, and resumed his task.

Long flowing hair, and eyes that seemed to bore into your soul, examining every piece and every facet of your being. That was Timpani.

Although he was hurt badly from the fall, the fact he had snuck out worked in his favor. He was able to leave the human woman's care, warp back to the castle and patch himself up before anyone was the wiser. His older brothers seemed to know something, from the looks and snickers thrown his way, but his father had noticed nothing, which was what truly mattered.

He visited her again that evening, drawn to meeting her again for reasons he wasn't sure of. Blumiere had done it again, night after night, despite knowing the consequences if the Tribe discovered it. Despite knowing how Father would react, after learning of his youngest fraternizing with the humans, with the enemy that had killed a wife and mother. Or even if his brothers-

Count Bleck swept the blade over the last strip of shaving cream on his neck, not allowing his hands to pause for a second, as they oft longed to do. He splashed cold water on his face, then applied a dab of aftershave to the smooth skin.

Their reactions didn't matter anymore. The sting had long since faded. They were dead.

Blumiere gave a sad smile at the man in the mirror as the smell filled his nose.

He remembered sneaking away night after night, and spending the short hours of the dark with her. Timpani began to stock his toiletries so he could prepare himself before warping back. In the morning hours, in the few minutes before breakfast when he would leave she would put her hand on his cheek, and put her face close to his. He would smell her soft, flowered perfume as she whispered she loved how he looked when he shaved, and close in for kiss.

Count Bleck stared into the face Blumiere's beloved had adored, sighed, and left the bathroom to greet the dawn.

/-/-/-/

 _you have no idea how much research i did on straight razor shaving for this fic._


End file.
